The cuckoo, like a hawk in flight, <br />With narrow pointed wings <br />Whews o'er our heads - soon out of sight <br />And as she flies she sings: <br />And darting down the hedgerow side <br />She scares the little bird <br />Who leaves the nest it cannot hide <br />While plaintive notes are heard. <br /> <br />I've watched it on an old oak tree <br />Sing half an hour away <br />Until its quick eye noticed me <br />And then it whewed away. <br />Its mouth when open shone as red <br />As hips upon the brier, <br />Like stock doves seemed its winged head <br />But striving to get higher <br /> <br />It heard me rustle and above leaves <br />Soon did its flight pursue, <br />Still waking summer's melodies <br />And singing as it flew. <br />So quick it flies from wood to wood <br />'Tis miles off 'ere you think it gone; <br />I've thought when I have listening stood <br />Full twenty sang - when only one. <br /> <br />When summer from the forest starts <br />Its melody with silence lies, <br />And, like a bird from foreign parts, <br />It cannot sing for all it tries. <br />'Cuck cuck' it cries and mocking boys <br />Crie 'Cuck' and then it stutters more <br />Till quick forgot its own sweet voice <br />It seems to know itself no more.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cuckoo-2/
